


Saving the world and ruling it

by kjollar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Character Development, Drama, Gen, Humor, M/M, Solas as Fen'Harel, mention of character death in alternative future, more or less canon, slight spoilers for the Inquisition's ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjollar/pseuds/kjollar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments in life of the Inquisition, with humor, drama, friendship, love and subtle plans for world domination.</p><p>This is a series of interconnected one-shots (some of which will be divided into parts). When it's marked 'complete' it means that all the stories I've already written for it are complete for now, while the storyline may still extend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First time Solas thought about... (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Actually, this story was first concieved with a moniker 'several times that Solas thought about admitting that it's because of him that shit hit the fan, and one time he actually did'. But then I decided that all my other thoughts and ideas can fit here too, thus expanding the storyline.  
> There'll still be a lot of episodes from Solas's POV (and, very probably, a development of a strange pairing - namely Solas/Dorian).  
> The story is taking place in the same universe and with the same characters as **Taming the beast** , but chronologically starts earlier.

The problem with the Inquisition, Solas was forced to admit, was that it inadvertently grew on you until you couldn’t imagine walking away anymore.

When Solas first decided to join, or rather, when he came to Haven seeking to help whoever was dealing with the Breach that suddenly opened in the sky, he didn’t expect to form any meaningful connections. He planned to offer whatever knowledge and advice he had, work on correcting the mistake that threatened to sunder the world, and then leave as soon as the deed was done.

But then, there was Mahanon Lavellan.

No, to be factual, first there were Cassandra and Cullen, two people who struggled to make the best of the bad situation, while everybody else ran around like headless chicken. They had no time for political squabbles and chantry’s posturing, rushing against time to organize their defenses and contain the demon infestation. He had no choice but to admire their tenacity and dedication in the face of a seemingly unsolvable problem. He respected them – even though he started out with nothing but contempt for the humans that pervaded the earth while he’d been asleep.

And _then_ there was Mahanon.

Dalish elves were not very much above shemlen in Solas’s worldview, and at the first glance the sole survivor of the Conclave’s explosion slotted neatly into the expected image of haughty arrogance: he very loudly complained about the situation and the position he’d been thrust into, and even killed demons with a squeamish expression of a lord who’d been forced to clean up the privy. At the time, when Solas caught his wrist and shoved it at the rift, he’d thought fleetingly that it would have been easier for his patience, if not for anything else, that his erstwhile patient remained unconscious. Still, there was nothing to it but endure, racing up the mountain slopes to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Breach that was spitting more and more demons with every passing moment.

But despite the annoyance he felt, Solas couldn’t in all fairness say that the other elf was useful for one thing only. Lavellan fought – if you got past his smart mouth and loud proclamations of doing it under duress – and fought well; he managed to watch all of the battlefield at once and carefully chose the target that posed the most trouble at any given moment. He was quick and efficient, and perfectly silent and unnoticeable until the enemy fell.

When the pride demon was defeated and the Breach stabilized for the moment, Lavellan blinked skeptically at the greenish glow of the sky and said to no-one in particular: “Fun fact: when I was a child I dreamed about being a hero who saves the world. Be careful what you wish for, right?” His tone was light and a lopsided smirk played along his lips, but there was something – probably a gesture so slight that conscious mind didn’t register it at all – that shoved a thought into Solas’s mind: _he’s terrified_. The revelation was so unexpected that for long moments the elf doubted himself. Neither Cassandra, who had scowled very expressively at every comeback, nor Varric, who’d delighted in fanning the flames of verbal battle, hadn’t seemed to catch even a whiff of this supposed fear. But on the other hand…

Varric, who still didn’t show any hint of worrying over Lavellan’s emotional state, gleefully offered his services in chronicling his future adventures, citing his book about the Champion of Kirkwall as credentials. Lavellan turned haughty once again and replied that he had to examine the edition before making his final decision, and Solas for the first time thought that there must be a pinch of humor in all that arrogance or Varric wouldn’t have laughed and promised to introduce him to the ‘finest example of contemporary literature’ at the first opportunity.

*

On the next day Solas noticed the so called Herald of Andraste walking along the streets of Haven and acting most like a cat in a new home, putting his nose in every nook and corner to get acquainted with the place and claim it as his own. Solas didn’t have a lot to do other than people-watching, so he chose to follow Lavellan with his eye, since the village wasn’t too big and his higher vantage point in the shadow of the shack he’d been given afforded him an almost unimpeded view of it.

The other elf, as it became clear very quickly, didn’t just explore his new habitat; he derived great amusement from talking to different people for a bit before revealing that he was not just a servant or a soldier but, in fact, the famed Herald of Andraste. Solas couldn’t hear the conversations themselves, but the changes in reactions, the fretting, the hand-wringing and even attempts to kneel were a very clear indication of that particular revelation. What was unclear, however, was the purpose of this repeated performance: if Lavellan wanted fame and glory he should have given his title right away. Who knew, perhaps he just enjoyed making people squirm.

“Would you like some company or do you simply prefer to watch?”

Solas didn’t flinch at the question, although the appearance of the object of his ruminations by his shoulder somehow managed to pass unnoticed. He also didn’t react in any way to the innuendo, made not so subtle by a lopsided smile.

“I don’t expect that my company will be much fun; after all, I already know who you are.”

“That just opens up new avenues of conversation,” Lavellan answered, unabashed by the reference to his recent activities. “Actually, we didn’t have time or opportunities for that yesterday, so I came to thank you for the care you’d given me while I was unconscious. Varric claims that it was you who kept me alive.”

“Varric has this habit of exaggeration, I fear,” Solas dismissed. “There was not much anyone could do to help, seeing as that mark on your hand was something completely unfamiliar. I passed my time mostly by trying to learn how it affected yourself, the reality and the Fade around you.”

“It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, then,” Lavellan clapped his hands. “The kind I like best.”

“You made _that_ very clear yesterday,” Solas couldn’t help but let a note of contempt enter his voice, remembering the complaints and almost-refusals of the day before. The other elf only chuckled softly.

“The problem,” he explained, still smiling as if the censure didn’t bother him at all, “was less in the fact that I was forced into unpaid heroics, and more in the form it was presented to me. I heard that you’d joined the Inquisition willingly despite the danger and I very much respect that, but the crux of the matter is _the choice_. I would and I did object to the implication that I singlehandedly destroyed the Conclave and thus was obligated to do everything in my power to counter the consequences.” There was anger in the elf’s voice now – a pale echo of the emotion of the day before.

“And if you were given a choice?” Solas prodded, intrigued by the new angle – and looking back, he had to admit that at least _some_ of Lavellan’s words were protesting his treatment more than the danger itself.

“Of course I would have helped!” he huffed. “It would’ve been beyond idiotic not to! I mean, let’s look at the situation: something big and dangerous threatens the world and I possess the only thing that can stop it from spreading. That thing, coincidentally, is also killing me in the process – or was, I guess, before the Breach was stabilized. So what would be the point of running away?”

“I notice you rely on negative reasoning,” Solas commented dubiously. “I don’t imagine it will carry you very far.”

Lavellan shrugged and looked surreptitiously left and right before stepping closer, although there was little possibility that their conversation could be overheard, or indeed, contained something worth overhearing. “Oh well. You see, it’s never a good idea to be too enthusiastic about these things. People tend to shuffle off all the responsibility and hard decisions on those careless enough to admit their readiness to shoulder them. I barely escaped the war council as it is. Those who lead should have at least some idea of what’s happening, which rather excludes people who had only awakened yesterday.”

Solas felt his eyebrows creeping upwards despite himself. Could this creature really be so jaded and egotistic as his words implied?

“What? Do I look like a knight in shining armor to you? I am ready to run around and close the rifts with my glowing hand, but I’ll not commit to anything further before assessing if I’m actually capable. Believe it or not, I take my responsibilities very seriously – that’s why I generally avoid it altogether.”

“That is… certainly a unique explanation,” the mage muttered.

“By the way,” Lavellan continued, still unbothered by the other’s skepticism, “I hope you’ll join me in gallivanting around the countryside. The Hinterlands – have you been there before? – apparently have a lot of problems, and the rifts aren’t even the most problematic of them.”

“So, despite your non-interference policy you decided to go there?” Solas enquired.

“The Lady Seeker is going there,” he answered with a convincingly affronted widening of the eyes. “ _I_ just accompany her for the parts that need the glowing.” He wriggled his hand.

“Shouldn’t Cassandra be issuing the invitation then?”

Against expectations, Lavellan didn’t immediately come up with a witty retort. Instead, he frowned in thought and then shook his head. “This is such a mess,” he muttered quietly and sighed for good measure. “We head out at dawn tomorrow,” he said aloud, a humorous twinkle returning to his eyes. “So I’ll just let you enjoy the final hours without my constant company.”

He turned to go with a jaunty wave and even made a few steps before turning back. “All right, I just _have_ to ask this: why do you dislike me? I admit, I wasn’t at my best yesterday, what with loosing every memory of the last week of my life and being accused of mass murder, but there was a hint of negative reaction even before that.”

Strangely enough, Solas wasn’t expecting to be called on it so directly, given that there were no open hostilities and Lavellan appeared to be more amused than anything else by the subtle digs at his character. “I’m afraid there are certain… misconceptions I succumbed to due to your background,” he admitted truthfully. After all, in the course of the conversation he’d seen that all the things that annoyed him in Lavellan’s behavior were either justified after a closer look or were a consequence of his own unique character flaws.

“Oh, you don’t like me because I’m Dalish!” the elf exclaimed with undisguised delight in his voice. “That’s a relief!” And without further explanations he jogged back into Haven proper, leaving Solas to ponder the strange reaction – and the conversation which was no less strange on the whole.


	2. First time Solas thought about... (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hoped to get to Redcliffe already, but I wanted to show a bit more of the interaction between my two favorite elves. Hope you like it too :)

Solas hadn’t believed Lavellan’s explanation concerning his attitude towards responsibility. It sounded like a typical excuse, and he fully expected to see a fighter who wasn’t really interested in anything other that closing the rifts, since that was, in his own words, the only reason he was invited to their expedition.

As it turned out – and perhaps by this time Solas should have been more open to accepting his failure to properly evaluate the other elf – Lavellan took an active interest in everything they’d come across in Hinterlands, starting from the mage-templar conflict, which didn’t show any signs of winding down even with the leading forces retreating behind high walls of their respective strongholds, to troubles of common folk that got caught in the crossfire. His participation was never overly noticeable: he almost always held back and let Cassandra deal with the humans, stepping forward only when they met an elf, and never outright promised to do this or that favor for them, be that revenge or help with livestock. He also never went out of his way to fulfill these little appeals – for any outsider it looked as if he didn’t care for them at all. For Solas, however, it was an interesting study in the other elf’s subtle displays of caring. Time after time their travels took them by the places that those people mentioned, and all the resulting help could be mistaken for a case of simple coincidence. Which, of course, didn’t diminish the gratitude of a hunter who’d now be able to feed the refugees or the widow whose husband’s ring was returned to her in a wake of templar’s highhandedness.

Lavellan was also very serious and composed if the situation called for it – when dealing with strangers or the Inquisition’s soldiers at the camps he was calm, precise and sufficiently emotional to prove that he took the situation in the Hinterlands close to his heart while still retaining a clear head. With time Solas noticed that Lavellan took the lead more and more, while Cassandra quietly slipped into the background, and he would have suspected the Lady Seeker of subtle manipulation if he hadn’t known her to be the most straightforward human he’d ever met. No, she was simply relieved that someone took the place at the helm, which she was forced into by circumstances but which was never her strongest suit.

At the same time, Lavellan remained very much the sarcastic and egotistic prick in the company of his immediate companions. He loved to joke with Varric about practically any subject that caught their attention, and they both sometimes went to great pains to rile Cassandra up (without undue malice). And, strangely enough, when their group stopped for the night, he developed a habit of pestering Solas with questions about magic, Fade and all the related matters. The mage couldn’t quite determine if the other elf was genuinely interested or simply chose topics that were more likely to gain a favorable response, so one night he took a page out of Lavellan’s book and bluntly asked:

“What exactly attracts you to my side? Is it because I’m the only elf in the vicinity?”

Lavellan didn’t bat an eyelash. “Sadly, the times when shape of one’s ears comforted me are long past,” he sighed with fake regret before smiling at the mage. “But you do have a very soothing voice; I enjoy hearing it before going to sleep.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” Solas chuckled. “But now I’m worried that I inadvertently steal Varric’s glory, since you prefer my bedtime stories to his.”

Lavellan tilted his head, looking at the dwarf, who was busy making notes in his ever-present notebook, through the dancing flames.

“Varric’s stories are amusing, but I find myself in need of reality instead of fiction. Or, at least, the tales as much real as the Fade allows them to be.” His voice was colored with sincere appreciation, and Solas finally let himself admit that the other elf’s interest was genuine. “You are also,” Lavellan continued, “the person who understands magical aspects of our problems better than anyone else. I won’t pretend to have the mental capacity to grasp them in their fullness, but I _must_ have at least the general concept. Not to mention, I am now somewhat magical myself, so any insight that would help improve my mastery over the mark is immensely helpful.” He flexed the gloved fingers of his left hand. Although leather concealed the glow, Solas still felt the faint distortion of the Fade emanating from his palm. There were undoubtedly many secrets the mark held, and Lavellan wasn’t wrong in his desire to uncover them; but there was a threat of making everything worse that prevented any experimentation.

The mage said as much.

“I know. It’s disquieting, having the source of our salvation literally in my hand, and knowing that it can turn out to be our end as well.”

“It is a great burden," Solas agreed. “But you bear it remarkably well.”

“For a Dalish elf, you mean?” Lavellan quipped, smile returning to his lips once more.

“For anyone in your position,” he corrected gently.

Both elves were quiet for a time, contemplating the twists of fate that brought them to their respective places. And while Lavellan was very much the pawn of circumstance, Solas couldn’t blame anything or anyone but himself. And, verily, if the fault was his alone, shouldn’t he stop projecting his anger at himself on the victim of his folly?

“I understand why you want to discuss magic,” he finally spoke, deciding to steer the conversation away from a depressing topic, “but your fascination with my other stories is a bit unexpected.”

“That’s simple,” Lavellan shrugged, “we share an interest in the past. We probably even developed it in the same way – because there was nothing particularly interested in our present. I, of course, don’t have your access to the endless repository of memories, but when I was a child, ruins were something I always sought out first wherever our clan went.”

“Did it have anything to do with your dream to be a hero who saves the world?” Solas interjected, recalling Lavellan’s comment at the Temple of Sacred Ahses. The other elf huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Well, when I imagined saving the world, I didn’t mean it quite so literally,” he accompanied his declaration with an emphatic gesture that encompassed their little camp huddling in the shadow of a single stone wall that was probably a part of some ancient tower. “I liked the memorials of history, material proof of events and people that lived through them. Dalish never leave anything behind – for centuries they drift over land without a trace to show for their meandering, without a tangible proof that they exist at all. They are so proud of the so-called history they preserve that they don’t notice they have no history of their own!”

“That… is a very uncommon attitude,” was all Solas could reply over his surprise.

“Yes, can’t say it was very popular among my clan. It was also the main reason why no-one tried to talk me out of spying on the Conclave.”

*

But no matter what Lavellan said, he’d never expressed regret over joining the Inquisition (although he loved to remind Cassandra of the inauspicious beginning of their association). By the time they returned to Haven with the plans and locations for the watchtowers that must be build in exchange for the horsemaster’s herds, he had completely given up his hope of staying on the fringe – or he’d sufficiently proven to himself that he was capable – because he only made wide eyes at Solas and whispered "I am _so_ doomed!" in elven before being whisked away for the war council.

During the following weeks Solas became an unofficial confidante despite himself. Apparently Lavellan – and he became Mahanon somewhere along the line, without Solas’s notice – felt a need to complain from time to time, but couldn’t afford to look whiny before the people who had gradually come to rely on him. Solas, as he understood it, was the exception due to his reclusiveness. He didn’t mind: when the last vestiges of annoyance had fallen from him like the molting fur he found Mahanon’s grievances funny in a petulant sort of way. The elf had a kind of dark humor about him that suited very well to their grim situation and made it a little more bearable.

“There are either too many advisors in the Inquisition, or too little of them,” was an almost constant refrain to all Lavellan’s monologues, “they never seem to agree on anything and can’t use the majority rule because every one of them has a different point of view. My own role in the debates can very well be fulfilled by the coin toss – the effect will be the same. Or better, since a coin won’t grow upset if anyone starts arguing that it should show heads instead of tails."

“Is this about templars and mages again?” Solas guessed.

“What else? And the funniest thing is: none of them even want to parley with us because apparently we’re not acknowledged as a legitimate power. Who cares that we’re the only ones who do anything about the rifts _or_ the common people’s protection, while these mighty powers sit on their arses and spit at the ceiling!”

“I'm sure they’ll come around eventually,” the mage soothed. “Didn’t that revered mother we helped at the Crossroads promise to give you the list of names for your visit to the Chantry in Val Royeaux?”

“Oh yes, let’s not forget about the Chantry,” Mahanon continued, resolutely ignoring the attempt at pacifying, “which doesn’t have a leader at the moment but still has time and resources to proclaim us all heretics. And I have no doubt that it was some overzealous chantry sister that named me the _Herald of Andraste_ in the first place! What a joke! I don’t even _believe_ in Andraste!” he threw his hands up in frustration, but then frowned and looked around (a habit he retained right from the start and didn’t drop even when they spoke elven in private which greatly reduced the chances of being overheard.) “I mean, I believe in Andraste as a person – if not for her, we’d have all been slaves in Tevinter today, but I don’t feel the need to declare her a bride of some god I haven’t got a foggiest impression about.”

“What is it that’s actually troubling you?”

Lavellan smiled slightly – not his usual lopsided smirk that indicated he was amused, but a small uplifting of his lips that meant he was glad – in this case, probably, that Solas understood there was something deeper behind his rant than simple annoyance at the foreign religion.

“It’s that I’m seriously contemplating this. To just go and declare that I’m indeed the Herald of Andraste.” He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “The one thing all my advisors agree on is that uncertainty brings us no favors, and in the circumstances we’ll probably get more support just prowling forth instead of pandering to the so-called powers. I don’t mind lying – it wouldn’t even be lying, no matter what I myself believe. It can’t be disproved, like anything else that relies on faith instead of reason. What I’m afraid of is that if I repeat it often enough my... the people forming the backbone of the Inquisition will eventually start believing it as well.”

“I think several of them already half-believe it,” Solas admitted.

“Perhaps. And I don’t like it. I just started to get used to them, and if they suddenly begin viewing me as a symbol instead of a person I’ll be forced to admit I misjudged them,” he muttered petulantly.

“Rest assured, _I_ will never think of you that way,” the mage promised solemnly.

“What, I’m not divine enough for your tastes?” Mahanon cried indignantly, seamlessly changing his tune. “Look, I'm even glowing with holy light already!”

Solas allowed himself a little bit of mischief and threw a magically formed snowball at the buffoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and left kudos, I really appreciate it :)


	3. First time Solas thought about... (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction of Dorian to the picture, and a little bit of emotional drama due to aftermath of Redcliffe.

In the course of their adventures large and small, picking up new recruits, expanding the ‘inner circle’ of people who were trusted enough to accompany Lavellan in his quests, and solving various Inquisition’s problems everyone gradually accepted Mahanon Lavellan as their leader. But what gave him the position of Inquisitor, long before he was presented with the title, was his visit to Redcliffe. And that also brought the third (and hopefully final) surprise that ultimately changed Solas’s long-term plans – namely, and obnoxious man by the name of Dorian Pavus.

There was a lot of unexplained aspects of both templars’ and rebel mages’ behavior, and since Mahanon’s advisors - as per usual – couldn’t reach the unanimous decision about who the Inquisition should try to reach out to, the choice was made mainly out of convenience. Redcliffe - the castle that king Alistair ill-advisedly granted as an asylum for the mages, was just north of Hinterlands, not very far away from the places Inquisition had already took under its protection, so Mahanon made a ‘small detour’ to check things out, as he was wont to do. But when their first visit revealed the extent of the troublesome situation, there was no question about leaving the mages alone. Even Cullen, who stubbornly insisted that templars could be a bigger asset despite Lord Seeker’s high-handed actions, didn’t argue with the fact that tevinter magister as a new leader of the apostates was too much of danger to ignore.

As for Dorian Pavus – a self-proclaimed rebel who wished to stop the Venatori and restore his homeland’s good name - at first he was just one more shady character in a long string of them and thus treated with all due suspicion.

“Leliana sent her little birds to gather intel from their contacts in Tevinter,” Mahanon explained when they met by Solas’s hut on the eve of their second departure to Redcliffe, “and the story of his life mainly aligns with his claims. He’s the only son of a prominent family, his father is a magister and member of a group lobbying for more strict control over blood magic use and reforms of their social structure. Dorian himself is known for his magical talent and for a time worked with his father, Halward Pavus, on matters both magical and political. However, several years ago there was a falling out – reason undisclosed – that resulted in his leaving home and joining the household of magister Alexius. When exactly he left it as well and how he traveled all the way to Ferelden is more sketchy and needs further investigation.” Lavellan went silent, chewing on his lip. “I really don’t know. It can all be an elaborate scheme – after all, Alexius is part of the Venatori, whereas there is no connection between the Pavus patriarch and these extremists. That argument between father and son could have very well been over their views on reforming the Empire. Add to that the obvious trap we’re heading into and we get a very slippery situation indeed.”

“And knowing all that, you _still_ plan to go there and confront Alexius, with this Dorian at your back,” Solas said reproachfully. “Sometimes I despair for you, lethallin.”

Mahanon made a very sad face that didn’t altogether conceal the pleased softening of his eyes.

“That’s why I’m taking you with me, isn't it? Even knowing all the risks I can’t let the situation fester – who knows what this Alexius will manage to accomplish with hundreds of mages inured to him. The best case scenario is a new escalation of mage-templar conflict; the worst case..." he lifted his eyes to the sky of Haven, were the greenish glow marked the place of dormant Breach. “Redcliffe holds the answers, if not all of them then at least some. We’ll keep an eye on our dubious ally for now, but we shouldn’t hurt our chances by preemptively lumping him together with the rest of our enemies."

“That didn’t turn out so bad in your case,” Solas commented mildly.

“Yes. But that’s because I’m such a kind and forgiving soul,” he answered sweetly. “And also because of Cassandra’s charm.”

*

The trap itself, surprisingly enough, worked better for the prey than for the captor, and Solas could have almost believed that the magister simply surrendered when overwhelmed with the superior forces of Inquisition, if not for a flash of green light between Alexius and Lavellan. Well, the flash and the wild-eyed look in Mahanon's eyes when he turned to survey the throne room, as well as his suddenly bloody armor.

And also the fact that Dorian Pavus, who had stood just to the right of the elf and thus had also been engulfed in the rift-green light, wore exactly the same expression and was in exactly the same state.

“Your plan failed, Alexius,” Mahanon said gravely, and only a white-knuckled grip on his daggers betrayed his tension.

“You’ll need something better than time distortion to get rid of us,” Pavus continued smoothly, as if they had rehearsed the lines, and the magister fell to his knees, babbling something unintelligible about uselessness and failure, while Lavellan turned to deal with ex-grand enchanter Fiona, who conveniently turned up now that the danger was past.

“Surrender,” the elf ground out, and any illusion of calm was shattered anew by the gravel in his voice. “You are no longer indentured to Tevinter. Instead, you are conscripted to the Inquisition and will obey my orders only.”

At least Fiona knew that she was out of options, especially since king Alistair’s timely arrival put an end to their welcome in Redcliffe.

Lavellan took a deep breath and turned to talk with the ruler of Ferelden. As far as Solas could hear, the elf milked the unfortunate situation for all it was worth, all but outright saying that Inquisition had solved the problem that the crown brought upon itself and its services deserved formal recognition. Fortunately, kind Alistair, who wore an appropriately contrite expression, and a very grim-faced warrior at his side appeared to be of the same opinion, which went a long way to relax Mahanon. Still, Solas couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was fundamentally wrong and he had to get to the bottom of the other elf’s behavior – the sooner, the better.

“He has a lot of nerve,” Pavus commented, having slinked to the same corner Solas had retreated to to get out of Cassandra’s way while she was busy organizing the Inquisition forces and conferring with the leader of recruited mages. “I didn’t think these rebels would surrender so peacefully when their ‘last hope’ was snatched from them. Aren’t cornered animals supposed to fight to the death?”

Solas turned his had and looked the tevinter mage up and down. At a closer look the condition of his clothes was even worse - they were peppered with tears and splattered with blood, at least some of which must have been his own. But he was also full of nervous energy, like a warrior after a long and gruesome fight, who has little strength left but can’t afford to relax in anticipation of a next attack.

“What happened?” Solas asked, ignoring the mostly rhetorical question. In all fairness, he wasn’t at all surprised by Fiona’s easy compliance – she had already forfeited her freedom once, so what difference did it make if her leash exchanged hands?

“Alexius’s amulet brought us a year forward in time,” Pavus explained willingly enough. “It was... not a good year for Thedas.”

“But you obviously managed to return,” the elf observed.

“Why yes, all thanks to my profound knowledge of time-magic,” the other mage blustered. “Not to mention, we now have some crucial information that hopefully will help us _not_ to get to the same point in time in a year.”

“Do you plan to _share_ this information?” Solas asked icily, because he wasn’t interested neither in boasting nor in clever wordplay at the moment.

Pavus shuddered, as if physically throwing off unpleasant memories. “Every piece of it that I possess. Only not right now, perhaps.”

Solas wasn’t satisfied with leaving it at that, but any further questioning had to be put on hold because Mahanon appeared in their shadowy corner and very uncharacteristically put both hands on Solas’s shoulders while all but devouring him with his gaze.

“You're alive,” he breathed out and closed his eyes tiredly on a loud exhale.

“Of course I am,” Solas frowned, sharply reminded of his worry. “I didn’t even lift my staff in battle today.”

“Not now,” he agreed, swaying closer still, “but in the year’s time-” he swallowed, and his eyelids flew open again, revealing a very distressed and still a bit wild pair of amber eyes, “-you will have sacrificed your life for me.” And finally, as if he couldn’t hold back anymore, he threw himself into a desperately tight embrace.

Solas held him for long moments, gently patting his back while his friend reassured himself that he was quite alive and well. If the future he witnessed was so ugly as to shake even Lavellan’s composure (which was almost legendary by this point, seeing as even his first sight of the Breach merited only a string of complaints) Solas was willing to give him as much time as he needed.

“I forbid you to die,” Mahanon stated vehemently without letting him go. “That’s an order. You’ve fulfilled your quota of dying.”

“I will do my best not to die,” Solas replied solemnly. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t lie in reassurance, because in truth, knowing his future self’s choice did nothing but reinforce his own.


	4. First time Solas thought about... (4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to the end of this particular story, with a little more humor and strategizing.

During the days of their return trip to Haven, made a little ahead of their main force, Mahanon had spoken little of his experiences in the future. Most of his words contained dry descriptions of the general state of the world with all emotions carefully edited out. His journey from the Redcliffe castle’s dungeons up to the throne room was described in clipped phrases like “Fiona was there, red lyrium growing out of her body” and “Leliana had been tortured, but not broken” and “both you and Cassandra were held prisoner”, while the trek and the fighting was presented as something perfectly ordinary – “we fight every day, what’s there to talk about?”. Solas nodded along and didn’t probe deeper, trusting his friend to know when horrors were better left undisturbed to help the mind erase them from memory more quickly. He was content to provide comfort in their traditional meetings by the evening fire and distract the other elf with dazzling tales of the past.

“It’s a shame I can’t properly explain what was done to the world,” Mahanon said out of the blue one night when they’d almost reached Haven. “You - I mean, the future you - told us that the Veil had been obliterated and the Fade bled into reality freely, but I can’t judge how bad the interpenetration was since I’ve never been to the Fade in the first place. And of course, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how it could be done at all.” He shivered and swallowed scalding hot tea from his mug as if it was cool water. “I feel like I’ve missed some crucial piece of information simply because I’m not a mage!”

“Don’t worry yourself unduly,” Solas soothed, “the information you’ve brought back - about empress Celine’s assassination and the demon army that comes in its wake - is much more useful than any half-baked magical theory. And didn’t you also have a mage with you? I’m sure he can be persuaded to share the relevant facts, if there are any.”

“Of course,” Mahanon brightened. “You must speak with Dorian about all that, and maybe about time-magic as well! I can’t believe I haven’t thought about it sooner.”

Solas cringed internally. Another side-effect of time-travel was a very sudden closeness that Mahanon developed with the Tevinter mage, who by an unvoiced agreement – meaning that the elf didn’t ask for anyone’s opinion before deciding that – became part of his entourage. Every time Pavus was mentioned even in passing Mahanon’s mood seemed to lift and he instinctively sought out the figure of said mage among the crowd. He had also tended to spend prolonged periods of time during their marches near Pavus, ostensibly bringing him up to date on the Inquisition’s accomplishments. Funny, how in the past Solas was never even a slightest bit bothered by Lavellan joking his days away in Varric’s company.

This half-formed resentment was tempered by Solas’s own observations that revealed some interesting truths about the new mage. For example, as obnoxiously loud and boastful as he was at times, Pavus could also be very delicate and considerate of others’ moods. Partly it was plain self-preservation – obviously, a Tevinter mage didn’t need to draw too much attention to himself when traveling alongside a squad of soldiers that had just defeated a magister. Tensions were still high and hardly anyone would think too much about the distinction between one 'vint and another. But Solas also remembered how Pavus slipped away unnoticed in Redcliffe, leaving him and Mahanon to their brief display of emotion, and henceforth never mentioned the episode even in passing.

Anyway, Solas wasn’t all too keen on talking to Pavus for reasons he didn’t want to examine closely, but he readily agreed to Mahanon’s proposal – more to appease his flaring sense of responsibility than out of actual desire to discuss the mage’s take on the future’s magical conundrums. He had no doubt that he could postpone such discussions indefinitely if he so chose; and for the next few days all of the Inquisition would be much too engaged in current problems to bother with future of any sort.

*

Solas’s assessment was correct: the last leg of their journey and the subsequent mad scramble to find sufficient accomodations for several hundreds of mages in a village that had never housed so many people were too hectic to find time for thaumaturgical discussions. Solas, by virtue of his specialty, was forced – not literally, more like wearily asked by Cassandra – to deal with the apostates alongside Vivienne (who was, in Solas’s opinion, much more competent in these matters but failed utterly in instilling any sense of calm or security in the Inquisition’s new recruits).

Meanwhile, Mahanon spent a very long time in the war room together with Dorian Pavus as well as his advisors, and even without a slightly greenish tint of his face when he finally emerged there was no question about the main topic of the prolonged council. To Solas’s uneasy surprise, he didn’t immediately go to rest afterwards; instead he went around the village checking on his new charges and gathering the most prominent of the conscripted mages. Passing by Solas’s hut he ducked inside and invited him along with a rueful “I know you didn’t approve of outright conscription, so let me explain”. Intrigued, the mage followed.

The gathering - conducted in a clearing, no doubt to avoid unwanted ears - consisted of thirteen rebel mages including ex-grand enchanter Fiona. Leliana and Dorian, both of whom had taken position in the shadow of trees to the left of Mahanon, apparently attended as witnesses only - or maybe also as an unofficial security contingent. Solas didn’t hesitate to join them in their watch.

“I’ve gathered all of you here,” Mahanon started in a clear, carrying voice, “to explain my actions. I will do so only once, and I expect you to share my words with all your comrades to avoid future misunderstandings. This is also the only time when I’ll listen to your objections.”

There was murmuring amongst the little crowd, but no-one was bold enough to raise his voice any higher.

“When I was coming to Redcliffe, my original purpose was proposing an alliance,” Lavellan continued, “but the events I was forced to live through made me change my mind. First of all, you don’t have to be a genius strategist to know that it’s never a good move to bring an outside force in a conflict, especially one that is so much more powerful than you are – the loss is almost certain to be greater than gain. Furthermore, Alexius’s convenient appearance in Redcliffe right after the explosion at the Conclave should have been enough of a reason to hesitate or even outright refuse his help, no matter how generous in appearance. Even without the glimpse of the future the Venatori strive to orchestrate, anyone should have suspected their involvement.”

“Hindsight is all well and good,” former grand enchanter interjected, “but our position was dire and I needed to protect my people. I had no other choice!”

“It’s a wise choice indeed to put a noose on your neck and thank the executioner for hanging it at the perfect height for your head,” Mahanon mocked. “Be grateful that you haven’t seen the consequences of this choice of yours as I have. Your people were dead, Grand Enchanter, the world sundered, all hope lost. The Elder One, who stands behind the Venatori, didn’t care for your petty troubles, he sucked you dry and spit out the bones, all in pursuit of his own goals.

“That is why I can not in good conscience ally with you. I saw firsthand that mages can’t be trusted to make choices. That leaves me with necessity of giving orders, and you – with an absolution of all responsibility.”

“What alternative did we have?” one of the rebel mages persisted. “We were pressed by the templars, with no hope for peace or even mercy!”

“Well, let’s see,” the elf mused. “Conveniently enough, I have a living example of the alternative. There was an apostate, who, after seeing the Breach open up in the sky, did not run away or hide; despite a very real threat to his freedom and life, he went to Haven to do everything he could to eliminate the threat. You can say that his actions set the plank very high, but think about it. If you came to the Inquisition on your own, out of the sense of duty to our world, while it was nothing but a handful of men desperately trying to contain the Breach, we wouldn’t have this unpleasant discussion now. In fact, you could be the ones to decide the Inquisition’s further path.”

Several mages at once raised their voices in protest, explanations and indignant accusations flying left and right. Lavellan simply stood motionless, waiting for the apostates to exhaust themselves.

“Well, that was the most glowing praise I’ve ever heard,” Pavus told him softly from the next tree over. “He adores you, you know.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Solas admonished, since public admission of Mahanon’s high regard woke his dormant guilt. After all, his motives were never as selfless as the other elf believed.

“That’s hardly and exaggeration, as I’ve seen it with my own eyes. When we’ve been in the future he hardly left your side,” the Tevinter mage continued. “You were muttering to each other every moment that we weren’t fighting. Seemed to have quite a lot to discuss.”

A flood of icy anxiety ran down Solas’s spine, drowning out anything else Pavus could have said. What was it that his future self told Mahanon? If it was the end of the world - or even something that happened _after_ the world had already ended for him – could it be that he decided to relieve his conscience or warn Lavellan about trusting the person that was ultimately the root of all their problems?

But no, Solas reassured himself with a shake of his head, a revelation of this magnitude wouldn’t have left Mahanon this calm; he wouldn’t have been distraught over the future Solas’s death and he definitely wouldn’t have brought him up as an example for the other mages. He was safe.

‘ _But for how long?_ ’ a traitorous part of his mind whispered. ‘ _Can you conceal the truth indefinitely? And what’s more, if your relationship with Mahanon progresses as it does now, won’t there be a moment in future when lying to him starts to feel unbearable? Do you really want to hurt the trust that grows between you two? And what will ultimately hurt it more, hiding or coming clean?_ ’

The jumble of questions was suffocating, and no answer seemed good enough or final enough that Solas could choose it and move on.

“I repeat,” Mahanon was saying over a considerably quieter clamor of the mages, “I’m not really interested in your previous crimes or your justifications for them. What concerns me is the Breach. Do I need to remind you that if we don’t deal with it posthaste there will be no world to talk about, so all your petty troubles will automatically come to an end? Or do you prefer it that way?” Lavellan swept the entirety of the crowd with his contemptuous gaze. “No? Then let’s have a look at your potential future. If the Breach is closed, your position will improve immensely.” The elf’s voice took on a mellifluous lilt, “ _In times when the Chantry did nothing but declaim us all as heretics and templars cared only for asserting their independence, the mages valiantly fought for restoration of peace and order to the world. Their heroics merit all the accolades and concessions they asked for, because they proved themselves an indispensible part of the forces that protected Thedas._ ” He kept silent for several moments, to let the apostates absorb his version of the future chronicles. “Don’t you think this sales pitch will go over much more smoothly than simple ‘we’re oppressed, set us free’?”

There was an expected uprising of voices, mainly complaining that their oppression wasn’t something to joke about, but Solas was distracted once more by Dorian’s commentary.

“That’s an impressive display of forward thinking, and quite kind to them, all things considered. Pity they seem to not understand it at all.”

“Well, Mahanon _did_ intend to secure their alliance before the going-into-the-future incident," Solas replied reasonably. “He must have thought this over long before Redcliffe.”

“Hmm, be that as it may, you didn’t see him _during_ that future. He was mad as a whole pantheon of Old Gods, and swore to bring fiery death and destruction upon everyone involved. He sounded properly wrathful for that too, especially after seeing you and lady Pentaghast going to your deaths.”

Solas had already spent an inordinate amount of time imagining what had been going through Mahanon’s head during his visit into the distorted future, and he could very well picture him in a state of controlled rage, made all the more fearsome for the veneer of calm.

“Perhaps he was mollified by the realization that his losses weren’t permanent,” the other mage continued, answering his own doubts. There was a sadness in his voice that made Solas shoot him an inquiring glance, but Pavus was resolutely watching the winding down gathering (Mahanon having persuaded all apostates that the Inquisition was their best bet). _What losses does_ he _mourn, though?_

“And here’s our fearless leader, victorious once more!” the object of Solas’s scrutiny cried out boisterously, all traces of heartache wiped out. “Fear of the Herald’s wrath firmly established in the hearts of lowly mages, along with the unreachable ideal they should nevertheless all strive for,” and his hand dramatically pointed to Solas, who rolled his eyes at the ridiculously flowery speech.

“Don’t make me sound contradictory,” Mahanon admonished. “After all, there’s already one other mage that meets my high standards.” He smiled up at Dorian, making in perfectly clear whom exactly he meant by that. Funnily enough, the Tevinter mage lost all his bluster in the face of sincere compliment; Solas could have sworn that he even blushed a little.

“Will you finally go and rest,” he asked, kindly diverting Lavellan’s attention from Pavus, “or do you have any other urgent errands to run?”

“Why yes,” the elf answered with a slightly evil smile and turned in the direction of the village, inviting both of them to follow with a gesture. “I need to show Dorian his new quarters.”

Later, Solas reflected that he really should have expected said quarters to be right next to his own; he just couldn’t tell if it was an elaborate revenge for dying in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that concludes the long-winded recounting of the first time Solas had thought about coming clean. I would very much like to hear what you've thought of it.
> 
> Next up: the Iron Bull meets Mahanon. Can't promise sparks, but sarcasm and innuendo will certainly fly :)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos.


	5. A measure of Holiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the first meeting between the Iron Bull and Mahanon Lavellan, with sarcasm and innuendo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little twisting up of canon events, but nothing important is changed.

Ben-Hassrath knew about the Inquisition right after it was formed and about an elf that fell out of the Breach almost as soon as he opened his eyes. Although the situation was potentially dangerous, the combination of too great distance and too little information prevented any active involvement. The Iron Bull, as the closest agent at the moment, was ordered to observe the developments and get as close as he thought prudent to obtain the most accurate intelligence.

Observing was something Bull did best – even better than fighting, although he didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it too – and there was no shortage of frightened nobles who thought that a mercenary group would help immensely in protecting them from the end of the world. He knew that eventually he’d have to insinuate himself into the Inquisition’s graces directly, but first he needed to understand what kind of people drove it and what kind of tactics would be best in earning their trust.

Admittedly, he didn’t quite expect the Fade-walking elf to show up in Val Royeaux and openly declare himself the Herald of Andraste, demanding that all faithful show their devotion by supporting Inquisition while it works to close the Breach. Unfortunately, Bull wasn’t there to witness his speech himself, but reports said that it made quite an impact, especially right after the templars publicly assaulted some chantry mothers and proclaimed themselves free of any obligations.

Bull’s interest was aroused, and he wouldn’t deny that it was as much personal as professional. He wanted to see this elf, who was either so crazy or so conniving as to name himself a new prophet of humans’ religion. (There was, of course, a third option – that the elf truly believed himself to be sent by Andraste – but Bull hoped that it wasn’t a case of trivial fanaticism for the sake of his own entertainment). So, as soon as the news reached him, he sent Krem to Haven with an offer for the Inquisition. His plan – if you even could call it that – was simple: invite _the Herald_ to inspect his prospective hire while Bull evaluated him in turn, and then decide if he was really worth getting close to.

Instead, Krem returned alone, looking a bit bewildered and bearing the advance payment for the job.

“Well, can’t you guess,” he shrugged to Bull’s question about how the ‘interview’ went. “I’ve told him about the Chargers and that we’re willing to work for the Inquisition, he asked some standard questions about numbers and specialization, then told me he needed to consult with his advisors but he would have the answer by that evening. By the way,” he added thoughtfully, “their base isn’t very secure – it’s really just a village; they fortified it somewhat and their troops are decent, but you can’t call it a stronghold unless you want to sound really insulting.”

Bull nodded. It was only to be expected from a newly formed organization that no-one of the existing powers desired to support. And since the Inquisition’s forces were aimed to fight the Fade creatures that were also disjoint and spread along the vast territory, they didn’t have resources or even an obvious need to prepare for the concentrated assault on their home base.

“I waited near the Chantry, which is partially converted into their headquarters-”

“Nice touch,” Bull snorted, “very in line with the motif of _Herald of Andraste_.”

“Yeah. But I think they just didn’t have anything else quite so spacious and halfway defendable. Anyway, true to his word, when he emerged again, he told me that it was quite fortunate that we approached him and that we were already at the Storm Coast, because there was trouble with darkspawn that he would gladly pass on to us while he himself took care of business elsewhere. So he gave me the maps, instructed to liaise with the Inquisition forces stationed on the Coast and sent me to their ambassador for the advance payment. He also promised to come here at the earliest opportunity to negotiate a more permanent partnership.”

“He just did all that on your say-so? Wasn’t he worried that it could be a scam?”

“I actually asked him that,” Krem nodded. “He looked at me with this strange expression, like he tried to decide if it was a legitimate question or if I just wanted to call him stupid, and then said that his advisors knew of the Chargers by reputation and also confirmed that our group was last seen near the Storm Coast, so he had enough verification for the moment, and not enough time to check it further anyway.”

Bull rubbed his chin thoughtfully. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected exactly – hardly anyone hired the Bull’s Chargers without seeing them in action first. But on the other hand, _the Herald_ wasn’t one of the pampered lords who had no other worries besides hunting trolls or pissing off their neighbors. He must have a lot of conflicts going on at the same time, so delegating was understandable and even expected. And Bull wouldn’t be surprised if a spy was sent after Krem to make sure that the money reached its intended destination instead of settling in some swindler’s pocket.

Well, even if the chance to meet _the Herald_ face to face had to be postponed, the initial contact wasn’t a failure; the Chargers had their job and it was a matter of pride as well as planning for the future to complete it with utmost efficiency. But before that he could get as much information as possible from Krem’s brief encounter with his mark.

“Tell me more about the Herald. How does he look? What did you think of him?”

“Well… he looks like an elf,” his second-in-command shrugged, “medium height, lean build, blond hair, amber eyes, tattoos on his forehead. He seemed to be really busy: the other times I saw him in Haven, he was always either walking somewhere very purposefully or talking to someone troubled-looking.”

“Does he actually go by the _Herald of Andraste_ title?”

“Umm, when I asked around, the soldiers told me that the common term of address is _Your Worship_ , but his name is Mahanon Lavellan.”

Bull knew his name, of course; he was much more interested in what he preferred to go by.

“Did you address him that way when you spoke?”

“No, I tried to avoid it altogether,” Krem chucked uncomfortably. “It seemed really strange, you know. _Your Worship_ ,” he repeated, trying and failing to put a necessary dose of reverence in the phrase.

“What was his reaction?”

“He didn’t even notice it. He seems like a decent sort,” Krem concluded. “Gets straight to the point, doesn’t have time for usual nonsense; according to some people I’ve talked to he’s almost a saint.”

“I guess I’ll just have to wait and see the extent of his holiness for myself later,” Bull concluded to Krem’s laughter, “and now we have some darkspawn to fight. I always wanted to see what kind of creatures they are,” he confessed, lying only slightly. “I already like _His Worship_ a little for providing me with this opportunity.”

*

Bull’s Chargers were very politely informed about _the Herald’s_ arrival beforehand. Coincidentally, Tevinter cultists calling themselves the Venatori, whom they’d met while sealing entrances into Deep Roads, got that memo too, so the much anticipated first meeting happened amid a battle to defend one of the Inquisition’s camps. What their enemies lacked in skill they compensated in numbers, although Bull was confident that his boys didn’t need any help in getting rid of the vermin. There wasn’t even much call for his particular skill set, so he was mostly following the overall flow of battle and swinging his battleaxe whenever one of the fighters got close to being overwhelmed.

Several of the Inquisition’s soldiers were already fighting alongside the Chargers, so when four more came from the direction of the camp Bull didn’t pay much attention; but when a first spell flew through the ranks and turned one Venatori into a pillar of flame the newcomers were noticed by everyone involved. In the moment of collective hesitation the mage twirled his staff and stuck it on the ground, producing a crackling line of fire that reached another Venatori and noisily exploded under his feet.

That seemed to be a signal for the fighting to resume, with Chargers roaring challenge and their enemies closing ranks for a new attack. Venatori spellbinders tried to get the mage, but a barrier sprung into being around him and his two companions – both fair-haired elves, Bull noted with a huff – and the hostile magic dissipated harmlessly.

“Well, that was bracing,” the mage exclaimed, and shivered under the pelting rain in the next moment, “by which I mean, it’s really chilly here, and the dark ominous clouds add much to the gloomy charm of the place.”

“Oh, relax, Dorian!” one of the elves yelled, notching an arrow and firing with only a fleeting glance at the target. “Didn’t you hear – the sea air is good for you! And maybe you’ll un-tan a little!” she cackled – that was definitely a she, the new angle of view showing Bull her curves – before sprinting along the edges of the battle while firing more arrows into the fray. “Hey, Blackwall, behind you!”

“Did you absolutely _have_ to take me along?” the mage – Dorian, apparently – complained to the other elf, while the blade at the end of his staff draw whorls in the sand.

“Look at it this way: would you have actually preferred to stay in Haven?” the elf replied slyly. So far, he showed no interest in joining the fight, content to observe it and play with a throwing knife. (Bull would have liked to have this option too, but he had to continue blocking and parrying for appearance’s sake: he could afford to split his attention, while his sudden stillness would undoubtedly be noticed by the objects of his current surreptitious observation). “Also, I’ve gotten used to magical support, but Solas’s knowledge of the Fade is now best utilized in preparation for closing the Breach.”

“Hmph. I’m convinced that your Solas could close it with just his evil eye. _I_ certainly felt its debilitating effect in full.”

“Come on!” the elf snorted. “How many times do I have to repeat the Solas isn’t _jealous_ -”

“Of course not! Only, his gaze clearly said ‘Go on and run around having fun while I do the serious part, _but if even a hair falls from Mahanon’s head you’d better pray you were dead already!_ ’” he continued in an ominous tone.

“Oh, oh, I know that one!” the elf-girl rejoined the conversation. “ _I’ll stretch you thi-i-i-in like the Ve-e-e-eil!_ ” she wailed.

“You have a very morbid imagination, Sera,” the mage commented.

“Is that another one of your ancient swear-words?”

“You’re both ridiculous,” the other elf concluded.

In the interests of expediency Bull abandoned spying for a time and redoubled his efforts of finishing off the remnants of Venatori forces. By that time they were well and truly caught between the surf, the Chargers and an electric minefield the mage created while bantering with his comrades, and it was just a matter of cleaning up the rubbish.

 _The Herald_ still hadn’t once lifted his hand in battle, depriving Bull of opportunity to draw any conclusions from his fighting style, and the qunari had to wonder if it wasn’t deliberate on his part. The elf, in turn, undoubtedly was aware of who the leader of Chargers was – his gaze found Bull unerringly after the battle ended, and there was no hint of surprise in it or hesitation in his stride when he moved closer-

“You also didn’t say that we’d be dealing with a _qunari_!”

-which couldn’t be said about his companion. Bull smiled lasciviously.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to convert you. Unless you want to, of course,” he promised.

“Right, _converting_. That’s what I was worried about,” the mage rolled his eyes. “I’d better go help Sera collect her arrows and relieve the victims of all their valuables,” he announced and walked away with as much dignity as shifting sand under his feet allowed.

Looking closer at Mahanon Lavellan, Bull had to admit that there wasn’t anything outstanding in his appearance: Krem’s description covered all the most prominent points, except for the expression of haughty superiority that entered his eyes when they turned to the qunari. His gaze swept down and up, unabashedly assessing, and a lopsided smirk graced his lips.

“I must say, I am impressed-” he paused almost imperceptibly, “-by your troops. I’m ready to discuss a more permanent arrangement.”

The next part was standard business talk which Bull had done so many times he didn’t even have to think about the words that rolled off his tongue. The elf’s attention also wasn’t fully on the conversation; his eyes shifted along the shore, tracking his men’s positions –the bickering between Sera and one of the Chargers over the loot, in particular, seemed to catch his attention. Even mentioning Ben-Hassrath and admitting his allegiance had merited only a flicker of an eye.

“My Spymaster had her suspicions,” he murmured idly. “Though I’m glad we won’t have to dance around the topic in the future. What kind of information exchange do you have in mind?”

That part was not as rehearsed, but Bull _had_ thought about it beforehand, so there were no hitches in their conversation until it came to the final piece of the introductory talk.

“And also,” Bull said, “it’s _the_ Iron Bull, technically, with the article at the front.”

“Really?” _the Herald_ finally turned fully to him. “Does it also start with a capital ‘T’?” he asked sweetly.

And just like that, Bull knew what the elf had been doing. Deliberate provocation as a means to see the worst possible reaction wasn’t a tactic he’d seen used often, and he was privately surprised that blatant dismissiveness had been working on him even a little, given that he was used to dealing with insolent nobles for a long time. _The Herald_ must be a man utterly unconcerned with others’ opinions and unafraid to make enemies of those who failed his test.

This partnership promised to be _very_ interesting.

“For _you_ , Boss, just ‘Bull’ will be quite enough.”

*

+Bonus

“I’m amassing quite a collection, it seems.”

“What are you on about, Glowy?”

“Let’s see: I have an elven apostate, a dwarven merchant, a Seeker of Truth, a Tevinter non-magister, a Grey Warden, a Red Jenny, an almost Royal Enchanter, and now – a qunari too. I can make so many different combinations of all shapes and sizes.”

“You _do_ understand that it sounds very demeaning? I feel objectified.”

“Nothing wrong with little objectification now and then, right, Boss?”

“Just keep me out of your innuendo.”

“Oh, are we talking about kinky shit now?”

“Sera!”

“NO!”

“We actually do, but you’re not supposed to admit it directly.”

“Hmph! No fun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If something is unclear in the bonus conversation, the lines go as follows: Lavellan – Sera – Lavellan – Dorian – Bull – Blackwall – Sera – Dorian – Blackwall – Lavellan – Sera.
> 
> That was really fun to write, I only regret there was no Solas in this one. Hope you enjoyed reading it too.
> 
> Next up: the aftermath of the attack on Haven or the ‘Second time Solas thought about…”


	6. Second time Solas thought about...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Haven's destruction, with a little tweaking of canon and religious arguments.

According to Varric, the Herald’s second escape from certain death wasn’t very spectacular by writer’s standards – any author describing it would be mocked for lack of imagination due to too many similarities with the first one. There was an explosion, a confrontation with an unnamed foe and, possibly, an artifact of unexplored properties, and then the hero emerged out of the mist (figuratively speaking, but the important part was that he just appeared in the observers’ field of vision between one moment and the next) without explanations. Of course, Varric then amended, the situation _could be_ significantly improved if the hero described his ordeal in enough detail upon regaining consciousness – that way the author could claim that previous repetition was simply a literary device. The _least_ Lavellan could do for his future chronicles was _not loose his memories_ this time around, else no one would take his faithful annalist seriously anymore.

In some sense, Solas agreed with this assessment: his vigil over Mahanon’s sickbed was also very reminiscent of the previous one: the elf’s physical wounds were healed right away and nothing could be done about his state except for sitting close and trying to analyze the Mark and the changes his encounter with its creator brought. Unfortunately, just like the first time, this task couldn’t occupy all of Solas’s attention, so he found himself compiling a list of reasons why it had once seemed prudent to gift a power-hungry monster with a source of almost infinite power. Funnily enough, justifications sounded even more laughable and far-fetched the second time around, the situation compounded by the fact that Solas since witnessed more destruction and mayhem and also got closer acquainted with people struggling to contain the damage wrought.

He was just deliberating if cultural shock due to prolonged sleep or temporary insanity would be a better excuse to the man who’d wanted to ascertain his own ability to save the world before actually proceeding to do so, when his patient groaned and opened bleary eyes.

“You’re safe, lethallin,” were Solas’s first words – the same ones that he’d thought to himself while sending healing magic into the broken and frozen body, trying to prove that the echoes of his mistake hadn’t destroyed a person he’d grown close to. “Haven is completely buried under rock and ice, but most of the Inquisition’s forces managed to escape it and set up camp in the mountains.”

“You won’t even give me a chance to ask obvious questions?” Mahanon croaked – his voice sounded really awful, scratchy and hoarse – smiling with chapped lips.

“I’m sure you’d prefer to save your breath for more obscure ones,” Solas adopted a similarly flippant tone, turning to get the flask of water and bring it to Mahanon’s lips. The other elf accepted it gratefully and sipped with careful swallows until it was empty.

“How do you feel?” was the next obvious question, since Solas already monopolized the right to them. Lavellan still thought about it for a few moments before answering:

“Really angry. And also like I’ve been buried under an avalanche. Oh, wait, I actually was!”

“This doesn’t sound as funny as you think,” Solas shook his head. It was telling that Mahanon found it necessary to describe his emotional state before physical, although he couldn’t have misunderstood the actual purpose behind his healer’s inquiry.

“Maybe not,” he admitted graciously, “But the fact remains. I hope Corypheus got at least a little battered too, or it would be _really_ unfair," he added after a little more contemplation. Then he tried to sit and huffed in irritation when the mage put a hand firmly on his chest. “What? You can’t say that I’m in no fit state to rise – I’m sure that _the Herald of Andraste_ got the best healing anyone could expect in the circumstances.”

Solas wasn’t planning to, seeing as he’d done said healing himself, although the shemlen title had nothing to do with its speed and thoroughness. “My powers are vast, but I’m not omnipotent,” he replied patiently. “I’ve restored your body’s integrity but I couldn’t return the energy it’d used up fighting and struggling through the blizzard. You should also remember that you’ll most probably be mobbed as soon as people see you’re awake, so I’d recommend staying down, especially since you don’t _need_ to be anywhere else right now.”

“Are you sure?” the elf frowned skeptically. “I hear my advisors arguing from here, and the least time I checked they still didn’t get the trick of using a coin to end their disputes.”

Solas sighed. It was true that Leliana and Josephine started discussing the situation as soon as the camp was established; they were later joined by Cassandra and Cullen, which did nothing to help them reach a uniform decision. Their heated argument was interrupted only by Mahanon’s return, but even this didn’t bolster their spirits for long. When it became obvious that their Herald was in no state to report on his confrontation with the Elder One they left him in the healers’ hands and returned to bickering about what should be done next.

Unfortunately, none of them paused to consider how the leaders’ all too obvious distress would affect their people’s morale. Solas, on the other hand, noticed soldiers’ anxiety grow as Josephine waved her hands expressively in answer to Cassandra’s gradually raising voice and mother Giselle, whom Solas not very politely shooed from Mahanon’s bedside a couple of hours before, tried to mediate without much success. In truth, all of the advisors would have benefitted more from some rest, but their sense of responsibility drove them to find a solution to a problem which had none - or, at least, where more time and information was required before making any decision.

“If you are as angry as you claim, your addition to the conversation won’t help it any,” Solas cautioned.

His friend’s body was tense for a moment more, but then he fell back on the bedroll and closed his eyes. “You’re right. But, come to think of it, I shouldn’t be this angry – after all, I’ve survived despite Corypheus’s best attempt to end me, and the Inquisition also lives to fight another day. Surely, it’s cause for celebration!”

Solas had no reason to deny that he, for one, was very glad for Lavellan’s and his own continued survival and viewed it as definite triumph. Unfortunately, most people were not as quick to see the silver lining and were more worried by the fact that their lives were still in danger and that harsh weather or a new attack would succeed in ending them even though they’d escaped Haven.

“What exactly were you angry about before?” he asked tentatively.

Mahanon lifted one eyelid and surveyed him blearily. “This Corypheus creature. He talked about himself as if he was so far above me that I was no more than dirt on his shoe. He implied that my existence was meaningless in the greater scheme of things, and the only reason he even bothered to look at me was the Mark." Lavellan lifted his left hand, which was uncharacteristically free of the fingerless glove he usually wore, and opened him palm, overwhelming the amber light of a nearby fire with poison-green glow. “You should’ve seen his face when he found out that it’s now a permanent fixture and he can’t just wave his magic sphere around and get it back," remembering that brought a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

Mahanon made it sound as if he was more concerned with the fact that Corypheus dared think him insignificant than that he aimed to destroy the world. Solas found it almost endearing how he masterfully covered all his worries and fears with a display of blatant egocentrism.

“It’s the second time I’ve deeply regretted not being a mage,” Mahanon continued, making a new attempt to sit up. This time Solas didn’t try to hinder him. “Half of what Corypheus said flew right over my head. The other half wasn’t much better,” he added wryly, “since I’m also not an andrastian. Do you know anything about the Golden City, or the Black City, or any color variation thereof in the Fade? Judging by his words, Corypheus went there once and wants to go again hoping to gain godhood or something...” the elf sighed, frustrated with his lack of knowledge. His expression was such a perfect mix of puzzlement and disdain that Solas readily imagined him looking like that at the monster and saying something along the lines of _‘Are you done with your monologue? I hope you didn’t expect your gibberish to mean anything to me’_.

“I’m sure your advisors will offer some insight when you speak with them,” Solas soothed. “I did hear something about it but I prefer not to confuse you with secondhand information. I can only say that to my knowledge there are no cities in the Fade – its nature is too fleeting and changeable to sustain anything resembling human architecture for long.” He paused for a moment, but then went on: “Can you describe the artifact Corypheus held in more detail?” It would be strange if he didn’t ask this question, Solas reasoned, although in reality he hardly needed any such description.

Mahanon told him everything he could remember concerning the sphere of power and all of the monster’s plans that hinged on it or the Mark, which he called an Anchor.

“There’s one other thing,” he muttered after a short silence, his face morphing into a somewhat contrite expression. “Do you remember our talks about the Mark’s power and inadvisability of experimenting with it?” Solas nodded but made no attempt to chide him for the obvious breach of safety. “You were right,” Mahanon continued after confirming that he would not be scolded. “Not about the adverse consequences, about the possibility of opening rifts instead of closing them.”

The mage remembered that particular conversation quite well. He theorized that if the Mark was not, in fact, a tool given by Andraste herself to her Herald so he could lock the demons back in the Fade (which was the most popular hypothesis among the believers), but a byproduct of some ritual, _closing_ rifts couldn’t have been its original purpose. It was much more plausible that it was created to _open_ them or at least stabilize them after they were opened by some other means.

“And you managed it how?” Solas inquired, curiosity overpowering his unrelenting worry.

“By making it turn in the opposite direction,” Mahanon answered cryptically, then shook his head and frowned. “Sorry, it sounded very strange when said aloud. I woke up after the avalanche and found myself in some tunnel, and while trying to find my way out I’ve ran into – or rather, inelegantly stumbled into demons. I’ve lost my daggers somewhere, and even if I had them on me I was barely standing – no chance to win a fight.” Mahanon’s voice sounded very much like when he told his story of future Redcliffe, even and undisturbed. “I remember what you’ve said about rifts looking like holes but actually being more like vortexes that suck fade spirits into the real world. It was just one of your fancy stories before, since I’ve never actually felt it – maybe Corypheus shifted something while trying to remove the Mark, I don’t know – but now I’m suddenly able to feel the spinning. When I close the rifts, I make the Mark spin energies in the opposite direction to counter the momentum. And when I saw those demons and weighed my chances, I just thought ‘what do I have to loose?’ and did the same thing. In the absence of opposing force the Mark actually created a vortex of its own, and it sucked all the critters right back into the Fade!” he chuckled. “I still can’t quite believe it’d worked.”

“Most impressive,” Solas praised with a note of sincere admiration, “especially for a man who regularly laments his lack of magical education.”

Mahanon lowered his eyes, as if embarrassed by the compliment. He would have probably tried to turn it all into a joke, as he was wont to do when something touched him too deeply, but at that moment people started to sing. The elves exchanged bewildered gazes and then silently watched as humans rose as one to the tune of an unfamiliar song, seeming to find solace and renewed hope in it. Mahanon, in contrast, grew more and more irritated, pursing his lips in an unpleasant grimace.

“Religion,” he almost spat through his teeth. “Why does everything have to be about some god? Can people not find any strength _inside_ themselves?”

“Not everyone’s as strong as you, boss.”

Mahanon visibly jerked while Solas maintained an appearance of outward calm. He wasn’t all that surprised that the qunari, despite his not inconsiderable bulk, managed to approach their open tent without notice. He was also unperturbed by the fact that Iron Bull of all the people was first to notice that the Herald was finally awake. Dealing with a _qunari spy_ was one of Lavellan’s questionable life choices that gave Solas hope – or, rather, potential leverage – for a future hypothetical confession of true extent of his involvement in the current mess. (Even associating with a Tevinter magister paled in comparison; but of course, he wasn’t going to publicly object to Mahanon’s newest addition to his Inner Circle.)

“Did you _have_ to sneak up on me?” the elf complained once he regained a semblance of dignity.

“I happen to be quite noticeable,” the qunari shot back, “whose fault is that if they managed to overlook me?”

“Hmph,” was the eloquent answer.

“How’re you doin’?” he then asked, dropping the joking tone.

“I’m fine for the moment,” Mahanon dismissed. “And since you’re already here, can you update me on the situation?”

“Think you’d better ask your Commander about it. I’m just a simple mercenary.”

“Oh? You didn’t yet compose a letter to Ben-Hassrath detailing the Inquisition’s current state?” the elf asked snidely. “My Commander is currently busy singing, and even if I was heartless enough to distract him I’d still prefer to hear the objective version, without any misplaced guilt tagged onto it.”

The qunari shrugged his massive shoulders in surrender and started summarizing the losses.

Solas didn’t mind fading into the background; in fact, now that Mahanon’s life was obviously not in danger, he could let himself have a couple hours of undisturbed rest. He also needed to check some things through Fade, confirm the memories he retained from very long ago, and maybe by the morning he’d have some good news for his friend.

*

Solas wasn’t the first to monopolize Lavellan’s attention on the next day. When he tracked him down, the Herald was already busy with his advisors, the scene sadly reminiscent of the day before, with the exception of location - Mahanon took them behind an outcropping of rock west of the camp, so that inevitable arguing wouldn’t be heard by soldiers.

Solas approached during a lull in conversation: the humans were gloomily watching the scenery or the snow beneath their feet while the elf visibly tried to restrain himself against saying something unpleasant.

“I’m sure king Alistair wouldn’t be opposed to letting the Inquisition reside in Redcliffe, at least temporarily,” Josephine suggested. “His correspondence shows he is very favorably disposed towards us.”

“But not to our mages,” Cullen interjected wryly, and they lapsed into silence once more.

“Do not despair,” mother Giselle crooned with a certainty of blind faith, “the Maker had protected and guided us in our darkest hours, he will not abandon us now.”

Solas, having a perfect vantage point to watch Mahanon’s face, knew at once that it was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Yes, please, let’s devalue all our accomplishments by heaping all praise on _the Maker_ ,” he hissed venomously. “Maybe I’m just an ignorant heathen, but I’m sick to death of your preaching. Please explain to me how it all works: if your Maker has time and power to guide and protect me constantly, how did he not stop Corypheus _before_ he destroyed the Conclave and opened the Breach? And if it is all a test of our faith and endurance – don’t worry, I’ve heard all your spiel before, no need to repeat it to my face – then how come he doesn’t leave us to muddle though on our own? Unless you can give me a logical explanation of this paradox, I don’t want to hear one more word about the greatness of your Maker!”

The humans kept uneasy silence; Cassandra had tried to stop Mahanon once, but he’d plowed right over her indignant objections. Solas was vaguely interested to hear mother Giselle’s answer from a purely philosophical point of view, but the woman had enough sense to follow the spirit of Lavellan’s order instead of its letter and remained silent. That, unfortunately for everyone present, was not enough to stop him in his rant.

“And while we’re on the subject of guidance and protection, do you know what kept me alive last night? Solas put the strongest barrier he could before leaving me to confront Corypheus; I’d felt it fracturing under the force of the avalanche. Thanks to it I had only a couple of broken ribs and a sprained ankle instead of a shattered spine. And afterwards, when I had to fight off a horde of demons, it were Solas’s words that gave me a weapon against them. How is that for guidance?” he looked around demandingly. “So, if you’re all so enamored with the idea of divine intervention, I hereby declare Solas my patron god!”

This pronouncement wasn’t accompanied by a flash of lightening or a roll of thunder, but Solas still felt it to the marrow of his bones. It was nowhere hear a ritual phrasing, but Mahanon’s conviction carried his will forth despite his ignorance and Solas’s very tenuous claim to godhood. _Only you_ , he thought with fond exasperation.

The humans, meanwhile, exchanged uncomfortable glances, but didn’t openly object – they were probably almost as used to his occasional eccentricity as Solas himself. Peculiar thing was that Mahanon had also looked momentarily uncomfortable, although he, of course, couldn’t begin to guess at the source of his uneasiness.

In the next second, the elf turned to the patch of forest that hid Solas’s presence in its shade and smiled broadly in great contrast to his previous annoyance. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go confer with my god,” he informed his audience.

“Your jokes are too blasphemous at times, _Your Worship_ ,” Leliana remarked to his back with studied indifference. “Take care not to repeat them in the presence of those whom you’d convinced that you are the Herald of _Andraste_.”

“Take care not to seem incompetent before the people _you’d_ convinced to follow you,” he shot back as calmly, clearly implying the very public argument of the day before.

Solas shook his head worriedly. It was bad that Lavellan’s anger still ruled him to this extent; normally he went to great lengths to appear neutral on any religious question and never openly antagonized his closest helpers.

Oh well, at least Solas could do his duty as a benevolent deity and disperse some sage advice on the subject of the Inquisition’s new headquarters. One of the elven ruins Mahanon loved so much was a perfect gift for his new devotee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to all who reads this and leaves kudos and comments! I love it that you enjoy my interpretations of the characters and their relationships and hope that the newest installment didn't disappoint!


	7. Origin of species (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most trivial circumstances are often best to learn something new about your companions.  
> (It's already telling that fighting outlaws and exploring booby-trapped caves is considered trivial by them all)

“Why do these people keep attacking us?” Mahanon asked irritably, cleaning his daggers on one of the unfortunate (and therefore dead) attackers’ clothes. “Do they even know who we are?”

“What gives you the idea that they care?” Pavus readily replied. “Haven’t your vast experience taught you that highwaymen don’t ask for credentials to check out how much they can get off your dead body?”

“Aren’t they supposed to be some kind of freedom fighters?” the elf insisted in his ‘investigation’. “ _Freemen of the Dales_ – or so our scouts say?”

“Maybe they fight for the freedom to rob anyone indiscriminately,” the Tevinter mage suggested.

Solas listened to the dialogue with a measure of paternal indulgence. As a consequence of Mahanon’s displeasure at leaving Skyhold he was prone to find everything around him a cause for new complaint ever since he’d passed through the castle’s gates. If he was given free reign, the newly minted Inquisitor could have spent years investigating their new headquarters, burrowing into the deepest holes and climbing the highest towers in search for remnants of its previous holders and pestering Solas for stories in the interim. It was amazing that no-one except for the closest friends caught on to his boundless fascination – he was so exited that he barely maintained his chosen mien of aloof indifference while in the presence of common soldiers.

It was convenient that the Inquisitor was expected to stay in Skyhold for the duration of initial settling to oversee the basic renovations and, more importantly, to greet ambassadors and diplomats of the neighboring countries and wheedle, threaten or barter for their support. Solas greatly doubted that Mahanon could have been pried away from his new giant toy if he had to go somewhere in the first few weeks anyway.

But eventually the novelty had faded somewhat and the Herald was reminded that the holy mission bestowed upon him by Andraste was far from over. Although investigation into Corypheus’s next move was yet to yield any results and most of the politics were on hold due to ongoing civil war in Orlais, the rifts kept opening all over Thedas and the Mark was still their only way of closing them, so Mahanon reluctantly left his castle to once again do his heroic duty to the people.

The choice of Emerald Graves as their destination had no deep political or strategic motivation. The Inquisitor apparently didn’t want to go too far from Skyhold in case of urgent news but he was also, due to his recent experiences, radically opposed to cold weather, which eliminated pretty much every other location in the radius of a couple day’s journey. And since Mahanon showed remarkably little disturbance over visiting what amounted to a giant graveyard for the fallen elves of the Dales, his little group was now methodically cleaning the forest of the rifts and everything else that had the temerity to get in their way.

“You know, the more I deal with shemlen the more I like demons,” Mahanon concluded his newest rant on the stupidity of certain ‘men who are free of their brains’ and the advisability of attacking an obviously well armed and trained people. “They, at least, have an excuse for their irrational behavior.”

“You know, Boss, saying things like that isn’t very good for your heroic image,” the qunari noted.

“I believe no-one here has any delusions about my heroism left,” Mahanon shrugged, unconcerned as usual. “Or do you plan to snitch on me to your Ben-Hassrath superiors? ‘ _The Herald of Andraste was heard commiserating with demons; he should be watched closer in case of future change of allegiance_ ’?”

“Hmm, that sounds more like those Orzammar criers then my reports,” Bull replied. “By the way, are you _that_ bothered by the fact that I report something to Par Vollen? You mention it every time there is even a slightest opening.”

“Hmph,” the elf pouted demonstratively, indicating his dislike of being openly called on his quirks. There was some truth to the qunari’s words though; Solas himself noticed that the topic of Ben-Hassrath came up awfully often. “You remind me about it yourself: when you try to correct my behavior I get this feeling like I’m an unruly child watched by peers who threaten to tell on me to the grown-ups.”

“Is it a part of your actual childhood experience?” Dorian suddenly joined the conversation. “What?” he huffed to Mahanon’s incredulous glare. “ _You_ always ask me about this and that, and never volunteer any information about yourself.”

The elf rolled his eyes, dismissing the topic altogether, and then turned to Bull again, all affected annoyance gone.

“Do your sources report anything on these Freemen in particular or the civil war in general?” he asked with businesslike calmness. “Josephine talks at length about the roots of the conflict and justifications on both sides, but, honestly, I’m more interested in the most likely outcome. After all, I need to establish some kind of foothold in Orlais and for this I have to know whom to court and how much use they will be after the dust has settled and the losses are accounted for.”

“Your motivation is callously heartless as always,” Bull said, although his voice held admiration rather then reproach. “If the Inquisition did something right it was putting you in charge.”

“Don’t think your flattery will make me forget your spying ways,” Mahanon replied, sounding amused and very pleased.

Solas sighed. This strange relationship his friend developed with the first and only qunari in the Inquisition was bothering him even more than any others. (By this time he had enough self-awareness to admit that he was opposed to any of Mahanon’s new acquaintances on account of instinctive possessiveness). The flirting, although not blatantly obvious, was nevertheless unmistakable, and while Solas had no intention of monitoring his friend’s bedroom affairs he couldn’t understand what moved him to dally with a person whose way of life was in direct opposition to Mahanon’s character and whose trustworthiness he himself constantly questioned.

Slanting his eyes sideways, Solas confirmed that he wasn’t the only one noticing the signs. Dorian looked subtly uncomfortable and made an effort to walk in such a way that the conversing couple wasn’t in his direct line of sight. If his accounts were to be believed, this kind of behavior where mostly serious matters were discussed in such a way that onlookers (meaning, Sera) loudly advised the pair to ‘get a room, or a tent, or a cave somewhere, for fuck’s sake!’ developed very early on, when Mahanon spent several days scouting the Storm Coast for signs of Venatori before returning to Haven and closing the Breach. Why exactly Dorian, who was overly fond of flashy displays himself, found this embarrassing, Solas wasn’t sure and didn’t plan to inquire.

“Since the topic of demons was so charmingly introduced by our dear Inquisitor, do you mind answering a couple of questions?” the aforementioned mage asked with nonchalant air. Solas had a suspicion that this attempt at conversation was mostly a diversion to help him avoid watching the second half of their little group, although they’d seemingly abandoned frivolity altogether and were heatedly debating the merits of diplomacy over brute force.

“Of course. I’m always glad to share what meager knowledge I have,” he answered, with heavily implied ‘when great and terrible Tevinter Imperium must surely possess the fullness of knowledge on this subject already’. Dorian expertly ignored the implication.

“The rifts attract Fade spirits and draw them into the real world, right?” Solas nodded silently, and didn’t elaborate since there was no actual question asked. “But why do they all turn so aggressive upon passing through the Veil? I understand that in most cases the transition is made against their will and the real world is shockingly different from the Fade, but still, why do they turn to destruction so quickly?”

Solas considered for a moment. Pavus undoubtedly had a better understanding of the nature of spirits than any circle mage of Fereldan or Orlais, or even Keepers of dalish clans. Perhaps talking with him about those who were oldest and best friends to Solas wouldn’t be as fruitless and frustrating as usual.

“You have to also take the positioning of the rifts into consideration,” he replied. “They aren’t opened at random, even though they were simply a side-effect of a ritual gone wrong.”

“But how far is it from the intended result?” Dorian interrupted. “Corypheus wanted to create an entrance into the Fade – all these rifts satisfy this specification, except for the direction of the travel.”

“It was only _one_ door he intended to open,” Solas objected patiently, “there was no need for secondary ways.”

“So, you’re saying…” Pavus muttered slowly, turning the magical problem over in his head, “that opening the Breach created a ripple effect across the Veil? Then it follows that the rifts opened in places with the most surface tension. I mean, where the Veil is thin, is that what you call it here?”

“Yes, exactly,” Solas agreed. “And such places are usually formed due to violence and death in the real world, and therefore attract spirits predisposed to it.”

“It can’t be all of them though,” Dorian said thoughtfully after another short pause. “And _predisposed_ doesn’t equal _bound to become violent_ , right?”

“A surprisingly generous assessment,” the elf remarked. “And generally I would be inclined to agree with it. However, the evidence now is very uniformly damning.”

“Do you think there is a way to reverse the process of demonization?” Pavus asked, surprising him even more. “I mean, if we did something right at the moment when the rift spawns them, could we, maybe, reduce the aggression or even help the more gentle spirits retain their peacefulness?”

Solas looked on his fellow mage with new respect. Even though his suggestion was made to make the fighting easier, he was still willing to help the spirits in the process, which deserved all the consideration the elven mage could give it.

Their discussion turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable, although it didn’t produce any ready-made solutions. Solas rarely had a chance to share his craft; Mahanon was honestly curious and open-minded, but he could never be more than a listener, so it was a peasant change of pace to be able to exchange opinions with a fellow expert. Dorian didn’t lack in knowledge or talent and was quite good at suggesting unorthodox uses for common spells (and was also charmingly flustered every time he found out that some part of Tevinter magical practices happened to be of elven origin).

All in all, it was a productive couple of hours at the end of which they had a few promising ideas, and they may have brainstormed a few more if not for their inimitable leader’s alarmed cry and ungraceful flailing that rather thoroughly distracted them.


	8. Origin of species (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took this long: I actually had to break this chapter in two because it grew too big for my tastes. The second part just needs some editing and will be uploaded tomorrow.

In certain circumstances it would have been funny to see the Herald of Andraste fall flat on his face. But in the three days they’d spent in the forests of Emerald Graves Bull had seen Lavellan run soundlessly through the foliage, effortlessly climb trees and even walk backwards while expostulating on the advantages of having a roof over one’s head with a kind of natural grace that spoke of life-long familiarity with the environment (he had also exchanged his boots for the strange elven contraption that left his soles mostly bare, but that was beside the point), so when the elf lost his footing with a startled cry and flailed his hands, the qunari was sure it meant something more serious than a simple stumble and instinctively grabbed the elf’s wrist to jerk him close.

Lavellan briefly craned his neck to look up at his rescuer and nodded his gratitude before promptly stepping aside to investigate the cause of his sudden loss of equilibrium.

“What’s going on?” the mages also came closer, having abandoned their involved discussion of something that would’ve gone right over Bull’s head even if he’d paid attention.

“It seems I’ve almost been felled by a cave,” Lavellan pronounced gravely from his position on hands and knees where he examined an a barely visible opening among the grass and fallen leaves.

“Oh, it was a malicious action on the cave’s part then?” Solas teased while Pavus exclaimed:

“Another cave!” His enthusiasm sounded fake to the careless observer but the illusion hid honest curiosity behind it. “And I suppose we are now duty bound to traverse it and uncover all its secrets?”

Dorian didn’t have to conceal or reveal his enthusiasm though; Lavellan’s own was generally enough to override any objections. His love for elven ruins was not restricted to grand structures like Skyhold: even a barely-visible foundation of some shack had gotten a fair share of interest. Emerald Graves were probably the best place to satisfy this obsession of Lavellan’s since its forests hid a new gravestone, statue or, indeed, a cave under every other tree.

“I’ll climb down and look for the proper entrance,” the elf announced to the surprise of no-one and easily slid down the hole. “I’m in some corridor,” came his echoing voice, “it looks pretty empty - no treasure, or murals, or even bones. I think the entrance is south-east from here,” he continued shortly. “I'll meet you there.”

“Well,” Dorian, who had been looking into the hole where Mahanon was expressively waving his hand in the right direction, straightened up and shrugged expressively. “As our fearless leader dictates.”

“How reluctant are you really?” Bull asked while they clambered over tree roots and dropped down a small cliff. “If I remember correctly, it was you who loudly marveled at the mosaics and the architecture of the last cave we’d stumbled onto.”

“You know,” the mage smirked condescendingly, “I may be the first one to say it to you plainly, but your habit of asking about people’s white lies will win you no favors in the long run.”

“So true,” came Lavellan’s voice from somewhere between the vines hanging thickly over the rock outcropping they’d stopped near. Solas only smirked quietly, as was his habit, before sweeping his staff in a short arc to clear the way.

If Bull hadn’t known that this entrance was man-made he would have probably gone right past it without a second glance – it blended so seamlessly with the scenery. This, he concluded, was a purposeful concealment as opposed to the previous ruins which had just been abandoned by the retreating elves and fallen into disrepair and obscurity over time. Perhaps the cave would contain something more valuable than fond mementos of ages long past: although Mahanon’s honest excitement was catching, Bull couldn’t completely approve of such a frivolous waste of time. They had a mission, after all, and every hour they wasted exploring crumbling ruins was an hour more when demons spawned from the rifts roamed free and could kill the elves whose ancestors built these very same structures.

“Is it clear?” Lavellan asked Solas upon reaching the point where he’d almost fell through the roof before. The other elf tilted his head, as if listening to a tune no-one else heard.

“It appears so,” he finally announced, then glanced at Pavus who shook his head in a short decisive motion, which probably meant he hadn’t caught anything suspicious as well.

“Perfect!” the Inquisitor exclaimed and started forward once more.

“I had a friend who liked exploring just like you,” Dorian said conversationally, following him at a more sedate pace. “He used to tell me that his expeditions always had cats on hand to send them first into any new place he’d suspected to be booby-trapped.”

“Are you simply comparing me to a cat or do you actually expect me to get smashed by a stone here?” Lavellan threw over his shoulder. “I can as easily send _you_ forward.”

“Oh, no, the honor is all yours,” the 'Vint replied hastily. “But maybe think about letting our qunari friend go first?” he suggested and sent a brightly unapologetic smile in answer to Bull’s mildly affronted look. “I mean,” he added, “he will hardly even feel if a slab of stone lands on him.”

Bull had nothing against playful banter and in other circumstances would have replied with some quip of his own, but his attention was more focused on Lavellan. The elf had been shortening his stride with every step and finally outright stopped, stretching his hand to halt the qunari’s movement as well.

“I don’t thing we’re welcome here,” he said slowly, as if confused by his own words.

“What do you feel?” Solas, as always, was first to act upon his friend’s sudden change of mood.

“Just that,” the other elf replied. “I feel like we should turn back.”

“I never noticed your intuition acting up like that, Boss,” Bull couldn’t help but comment.

“That’s just the thing!” Lavellan was visibly getting more agitated, “I’ve never _had_ any sort of preternatural sense for danger!”

“And no-one else feels like this?” Solas checked. Both the human and the qunari shook their heads.

“You think it’s some kind of an early scaring-off spell?” Pavus suggested.

“It very well may be,” the elven mage nodded thoughtfully.

“But why only one of us feels it?” Bull asked, perplexed.

Both mages easily ignored his very pertinent question, immersed as they were in a spell (in Pavus’s case) or simple contemplation of the nearest wall (in Solas’s). Lavellan didn’t try to interrupt them, but instead inclined his head slightly in the direction they’d come from; Bull compliantly made a few steps back which seemed to calm the Boss down.

“Oh, it’s brilliant!" the 'Vint exclaimed suddenly and pointed vaguely in the same direction Solas was meditating over. “Simply ingenious! Do you see how the threads are interwoven with the stonework?”

“Indeed,” the elven mage nodded. “I take it you haven’t come across anything like this before.”

“Not with this level of refinement, certainly,” Pavus replied, in perfect tune with the other. “I tried to do a spell like that once to protect my personal research while staying in the Qarinus’s Circle, but it ended up exploding in my face.”

“Together with the research?” Solas slanted a quick smile in his direction.

“Do you really think I’d use anything valuable to try an untested spell on?” Dorian looked and sounded properly offended.

“What is it?” Lavellan demanded, making the mages turn to him as one.

“This is a turnaway spell,” Solas explained, “but primed to warn only a certain group of people - namely, elves without magical talent.”

“Really? How does that work?”

“Do you mean _why_ does the spell work like that?” the mage suggested. “I don’t think obscure magical theory of its creation will be useful to you.”

Instead of objecting out of pure principle, as Lavellan was wont to do when corrected by any other person, he simply hitched his shoulders in a barely-there shrug and smiled sheepishly while nodding. Bull wondered, not for the first time, what kind of relationship linked the two elves. They were both very far from what he considered ‘typically dalish’, but if the stories were true Lavellan hadn’t known Solas any longer than the founding members of the Inquisition, so there was no obvious reason for the level of closeness between them that far exceeded any other Mahanon’s relationship the qunari observed.

Solas, meanwhile, went on with his explanation. “This is most likely a cache of an elven mage. It is natural to find strict warding on the entrance, but the owner was not so selfish as to leave it to rot if ill fate befell him, and thus left his fellow spellcasters a chance to get to his goods.”

“But why not close it from _all_ others?” Lavellan frowned. “Why make the warning be felt only by the elves?”

“It’s just a wild guess,” Dorian chimed in, “but I would suppose the owner wasn’t very thrilled with humans and hoped his traps would catch some for his later amusement.”

“Hmm,” the Inquisitor considered. “And what category do you think _you_ fall into - fellow mages or hated humans?”

“As charming and wonderful as I undoubtedly am,” the 'Vint drawled, “I’m afraid the human-ness wins out.”

“But you’ll still be going forward, I hope,” all but the barest trace of amusement was gone from Lavellan’s voice. “I wouldn’t want to have Solas entering without backup.”

“Funny how it’s decided that I’ll be going there at all,” Solas commented dryly.

There was a silent exchange of glances between the elves that had contained whole sentences neither of them troubled to put into words. Bull, for lack of a way to translate the communication, turned to Pavus; the mage, however, was once again busy examining whatever he’d found with the help of his spells and didn’t pay attention to the qunari.

“Oh, very well,” Solas finally huffed, making an aborted ‘whatever’ gesture with his free hand. “But if there’s nothing of particular interest here, you owe me an unspecified favor.”

“An _unspecified_ favor?” Bull muttered incredulously, because the phrasing was not a bit weird.

The elves exchanged another one of their speaking glances, grinned simultaneously and turned in opposite directions.

“Be careful,” Lavellan advised. “We’ll be waiting at the entrance. I’m sure you’ll find some way to alert us if our help is urgently needed.”


	9. Origin of species (3)

“So,” Bull drawled when the non-magical half of their group emerged into daylight again, “I noticed you weren’t too disappointed by the need to sit this exploration out.”

“Well,” the elf shrugged, “the spells prevented me from going further; I can’t argue with objective reality.”

“Of course, Boss,” the qunari conceded easily. “But in the last three days objective reality never once prevented you from loudly complaining about its unfairness.”

Mahanon chuckled softly. “Do you remember what Dorian said to you about commenting on others’ behavior?”

In the brief silence that followed the elf lowered himself on the lush green grass in a patchy shadow of the tree crowns and folded his hands behind his head. His almond-shaped eyes, closed to slits against the beams of sunlight, followed Bull’s movements while he sat down close by with his back to a trunk.

“You wanted to leave our mages alone,” the qunari easily ignored the hint. His words this time weren’t framed as a question - he noticed that simple statements were generally better received (or at least had a lesser chance of being met with evasion and sarcasm).

“I did,” Lavellan agreed easily. “It’s good for them.”

“Why’s that?”

“What can I say? I want the people I like to get along,” he smiled sweetly.

“Oh? When should I expect to be put into a locked room with Solas then?” Bull enquired.

"That would imply that I like you,” the smile turned sly, somehow never loosing its sweetness.

“Don’t you?” Bull rumbled, leaning forward to loom over his prone form, “I seem to remember quite a lot that you’d liked about me, several times and in different positions.”

The elf opened his eyes a bit more and lifted his eyebrows in a perfect mix of surprise and amusement, calling Bull’s bluff. Of course, he wouldn’t start anything now, in the middle of hostile territory and with their companions in potential need of assistance.

“So, you grew up in a place like this?” Bull asked, abandoning the innuendo altogether and once again reclining against a tree.

“M-hm. It’s a bit colder there, and not nearly as interesting,” Lavellan relaxed as well - and only the release of tension showed Bull that despite outward amusement the elf had been ready to fend off anything Bull chose to throw at him.

“That why you finally put on elfish foot-things?” he prodded.

“Because of the ruins or because of the weather?” Lavellan asked back in the same light tone. “They’re certainly more comfortable - before, I’ve felt like I’m half a sense down - but on the other hand, I’ve recently gotten a much greater appreciation for human footwear.”

“Yeah. I’ve seen the state you were in when they’d brought you to the camp,” Bull agreed. “If not for the boots you could’ve probably kissed your feet goodbye.”

“Kiss my feet goodbye,” Mahanon repeated ponderously. “Hmm, that would require an interesting contortion.”

“Now you’re just teasing,” Bull laughed.

His thoughts automatically moved forth, to imagining the lithe body folding in half, which wouldn’t even be the most amazing feat of flexibility he’d already witnessed, and from there – to an even more enticing image of himself licking along slim ankles bound together by soft rope. It was a real shame that current circumstances weren’t suitable for turning those visions into reality.

“You know, wearing those foot-things-” the qunari repeated the ‘term’ to see if he could make the corners of the elf's eyes crinkle in amusement, “-is probably the first dalish thing I’ve seen you doing.”

“Do you actually have experience to say what things are properly dalish?” was the expected mocking question.

“I’m pretty sure that mingling with humans is strictly _not_ one of them,” he lobbed back. “Aren’t you breaking some law or at least lore by leading the Inquisition?”

Amber eyes opened fully and he was treated to the considering stare that had gone on for so long that Bull had to say: “Is it taboo to ask or something?”

“No. I’m just contemplating the incongruity of everyone suddenly wanting to learn more about me.”

Bull remembered Dorian’s off-hand question; at the time he’d have liked to hear an answer too. The ‘Vint was right - Lavellan was curious about his companions’ backgrounds and was such a good listener that they all told him quite a lot; but he always expertly maneuvered the conversation so that questions about himself never even arose most of the time. Everybody knew the basics - if they even could be called that: the Herald was originally from a dalish clan situated somewhere in the eastern Free Marches, he had been at the Conclave and was the only one to survive the explosion; he was fearless, courageous and selfless (that one was mostly speculation of those who watched Lavellan from afar and viewed him as more of a symbol than a living being) and had already led the Inquisition to several definitive triumphs over the unimaginable evil that threatened the world (that one was at least in half the work of their ambassador who had a talent of spinning a story in such a way that even gravest tragedies looked like victories in the end).

‘I bet _Solas_ knows much more than that,’ Bull thought fleetingly. But of course, chances of the elven mage divulging even a tiniest tidbit of information were slim to none.

“Curiosity is natural,” Bull said in a tone of sharing profound wisdom, “and at a certain point people decide that their acquaintance is long enough to justified satisfying it. Of course, _some_ people don’t even wait a socially acceptable amount of time,” he added snidely.

Lavellan was, as always, unperturbed by the jibe at his conduct.

“Even if I feel like sharing my life story, I certainly won’t do it with a confirmed spy,” he replied. “Who knows what details of my existence will make it into a report and what kind of conclusions the people reading it would come to.”

“Strange that you’re so worried about revealing your past when your present actions are not shy in advertising what kind of a man you are.”

“Oh, but they advertise only what _I_ want them to. My younger self may not have been as discrete.”

It was Bull’s turn for a long studying look. The elf, meanwhile, felt perfectly content to silently watch him without betraying any discomfort over the prolonged scrutiny.

“You are excessively suspicious,” the qunari finally concluded. “I can hardly imagine how you’ve come by this way of thinking.”

“Well, obviously, I’ve _thought_ about it,” Mahanon shrugged. “I even had a lot of reasons and appropriate circumstances for it; after all, I, myself, had been _spying_ on the Conclave at the time of the explosion.”

That piece of information was entirely new to Bull.

“Spying?” he repeated incredulously.

“M-hm. Josephine - the genius that she is – has been wording the first accounts of my involvement in such a way that it seems like I’ve been there to _witness_ the proceedings as a dalish elves’ representative. Naturally, all those who could have called her out on the lie are dead already, but most people don’t even stop to wonder why would the Chantry, even with a Divine so liberally inclined as Justinia, invite _dalish elves_ who had always maintained a strict policy of segregation.”

“How did you infiltrate?” the qunari asked out of professional curiosity. “As a servant? Do they even have elven servants in the chantry?”

“Probably. But no, I masqueraded as a lay brother.”

“Do they have elven clergymen?” Bull’s tone was even more disbelieving.

“Oh, no, I pretended to be human. Did you see the hats they’re wearing?” Lavellan continued without further prodding. “Not even a strand of hair visible, much less the shape of one’s ears. The only problem is the eyes, but a bit of makeup correctly applied - and voila, transformation complete. With so many representatives from different chantries all over Orlais, Fereldan and Free Marches, it was perfectly easy to blend in: once you know a name of one revered mother, you just need to drop it in conversation and it’s assumed you’re with her entourage. An afternoon of discrete gossiping was enough to know everything that’s been happening behind supposedly closed doors.” Judging by the elf’s tone he was proud of a deception successfully pulled off and at the same time contemptuous of the lax security. Taking into account the Conclave’s sad fate, he had every right to be.

“Clever,” Bull agreed. “But how come elves decided to send a spy in the first place?”

Mahanon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, all traces of smugness gone. “You’ll be fishing until I crack, won’t you?”

“Look,” the qunari sighed. “I swear I won’t report anything you’ll say. I’m asking out of personal curiosity. And can you blame me?” he continued earnestly. “You’re not just some average elf I’ve met in the course of my job, you’ve literally come out of nowhere and managed to rise to the top of a newly emerged powerful organization overnight. Come to think of it, I’m surprised that historians don’t queue up to write your biography.”

“Varric claimed rights to that already,” Mahanon said in perfect seriousness.

“Does _he_ know about your past?”

“Not yet. For now he’s content to document the present.”

“You are a very exasperating person.” A satisfied smile on the elf’s lips clearly told him that was exactly the desired effect.

Even though the Iron Bull was a self-admitted spy, he still preferred not to lie about his intentions unless it was absolutely necessary. He was genuinely curious about Mahanon’s origins: Lavellan rightfully pointed out that he knew precious little about the dalish way of life, but even those scrapes were enough to understand how uniquely this particular elf acted. Not to mention, the story of his establishment as the Herald of Andraste wasn’t one an ordinary person could survive unscathed, while he obviously thrived in his new role and showed no signs of breaking under pressure.

Fortunately for Bull, even this extraordinary being wasn’t completely immune to flattery, despite previous protestations.

“All right,” Mahanon conceded with a put-upon air. “But in all honesty, my past is worth neither your insistence nor my denials.” He shuffled on the grass, taking a more comfortable position (although Bull couldn’t quite imagine a proper way to lay on double daggers hanging from one’s back). “I was always a contrary child. Explanations like ‘it is tradition’ and ‘this is the way of our ancestors’ were never enough for me; I wanted to know why exactly we were always travelling through forests without any stability or even a roof over our heads, why we avoided humans to the point of never even trying to find some common ground, why the entirety of our lives consisted of surviving without any hint of progress or improvement. Do you know that half of us don’t even know how to read? ‘The hunter need only know the language of the forest’,” he pronounced in a mockingly deep grave voice and promptly scoffed in derision. “Our history spreads through word of mouth, the communication is scarce even between different clans, and the general consensus is we should pretend as hard as we can that there’s nothing in the world worth our attention, when in fact we become just an insignificant footnote in the history of Thedas and sooner or later will die out altogether. And you should keep in mind that Lavellan is considered one of the more ‘progressive’ clans, because it freely accepts the city elves who want to ‘return to their roots’; this policy also makes it one of the largest.”

The passion of his voice was clearly showing how important the fate of his people was to Mahanon. Bull could respect that.

“Of course, no-one was interested in listening to an impetuous kid,” the elf continued, “even when I didn’t stop at questioning and started suggesting what I though were solutions.”

“What kind of solutions are we talking about?”

“The most obvious one - trading. There are things that we can provide that humans will definitely find at least intriguing, for example the ironbark armor and weapons, the secrets of working with which elves had kept for generations. And hunting for game or more exotic creatures is one of the easiest trade venues as well.” The elf sighed. “It’s not original, right? By now I know I’m not even among the first to suggest it, although in youth it felt like I was the only one. But no, the elves won’t lower themselves to dealing with shemlen – it’s better to slowly die of starvation and prosecution than try to change their outdated was of life!”

“Was there absolutely no-one else who shared your views?”

“There were some who doubted, but most of them were easily persuaded that they shouldn’t rock the boat: all that it took was a talk with one of the former city elves – they were always eager to describe the discrimination and horrors of living in the Alienage.” Lavellan stopped speaking for a time, looking sightlessly into the green canopy overhead. “Needless to say, I didn’t entirely believe that life in the human city was that bad, otherwise there would be no elves in them at all. Keeper Istimaethoriel - the leader of our clan - let me go to visit Wycome to confirm this. She is not altogether unreasonable,” he added, perhaps wanting to distinguish between her and others from his clan, “but her views were never so radical as to force any change, although she made a production of agreeing with me on some matters concerning humans. She had probably thought that the shock of an entirely different environment would persuade me I was wrong and I’d return home with my ‘delusions’ thoroughly wiped out.”

“Not that it did,” Bull muttered; even though the Inquisitor was comfortable moving through the wilderness, his actions and words just clearly showed his inclination towards a more civilized way of life.

“Yes, I’m stubborn that way. Granted, the difference _was_ profound, but not entirely bad; although I did get thoroughly disappointed in my city brethren. Seems like you can get an elf out of the Dales, but you can’t get the Dales out of the elf. They made the same exact mistake as my clan did - stayed as a tightly knit group instead of integrating into human lives and carving a place for themselves that made them indispensible. The song and dance repeated - I talked, I reasoned, I suggested solutions but all my words had shattered on the wall of ‘it’s no use, things will always stay that way’. At least I’ve gotten some useful skills out of my stint in Wycome before returning to the woods.”

“I’ve got the impression that city life agrees with you more,” Bull observed and, getting a quick half-shrug, continued, “so why return at all?”

“The tensions were rising between mages and templars, and it spilled in other strained relations, such as between the city-state and the nearby elven clan. I felt like my place was there.”

Bull briefly thought about what kind of life Mahanon could have led if he was born into the Qun. His sense of responsibility to his people – both the clan he spoke about and the Inquisition now – was profoundly admirable. If he’d met Lavellan in Seheron and watched him make the same decisions and act as he did directing and leading his forces, he would’ve thought he met the next Arishok. But on the other hand, there was an undercurrent of loneliness in his words, a weary distrust of his clansmen, even the Keeper who he’d named as being the most reasonable. If he treated the Qun in the same way, constantly questioning established traditions, it wouldn’t have endeared him to the Ben-Hassrath.

There was something missing from the story, Bull realized suddenly. The reason Mahanon was so different from the others - the dissatisfaction and drive to change things couldn’t have just blossomed without reason. But it was no use asking the question now, unless he wanted to get another accusation of perfidy.

“The thing is,” the Inquisitor said after a pause so long that Bull thought story time was over, "I’m not patient. I can _understand_ how people think but I don’t usually bother with untangling their misconceptions and superstitions and finding the most appropriate way to convince them that I’m right. I expect too much of them - to just up and see the world the same way as I do, and if they can’t do that I write them off as a lost cause. If not for a very strange and unlikely set of circumstances, I would’ve spent my whole life as a perpetually discontent loner who can only complain about the stupidity of others and do absolutely nothing about it.”

“You underestimate yourself, Boss,” Bull felt the need to object. “If you really were like that I highly doubt that your advisors would’ve put you in charge.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Mahanon’s lopsided smirk had a razor edge to it. “I’m not saying that I’m not fit to be the Inquisitor, quite the contrary – I’m simply explaining that I couldn’t have gotten to the top on my scarce merits alone and I couldn’t have stayed there if not for my closest allies. I’m not a leader: I can’t inspire thousands to follow behind me with right words and actions, serving as an example of all the virtues every warrior wants to see in himself. But I have one beside me and his loyalty and valor deserve only the highest praise.

I’m not the best diplomat: I can’t catch all the nuances in others’ words and actions or make long-reaching conclusions upon observing a bunch of markers on Thedas’s map. But I have two who do this easily and can answer any question I put to them.

I am not even a hero: I dislike putting my life on the line, and if I had any other options I would’ve hidden behind Skyhold’s walls and stayed there indefinitely. You can’t imagine how glad I am that there were no witnesses of my confrontation with Corypheus,” Mahanon lowered his voice conspiratorily, “it definitely wasn’t heroic enough to be sung about in taverns afterwards. Fortunately, there are others among my inner circle who present a much better picture of a champion, and their brilliance casts my own distant figure in better light. Otherwise my soldiers would have known that I’m very selfish and, frankly, extremely annoying.”

Bull didn’t bother with protests this time, but once again thought of the Qun. All qunari were taught to be self-aware, to find and acknowledge their flaws and work on overcoming them; but he also remembered how Tama reminded him not to judge oneself too harshly lest it overshadows all the good things.

“My advisors are all brilliant people, far exceeding me in their chosen field; but there is a reason why none of them thought to take up the title, unanimously deciding to pin it on me instead,” Mahanon continued as if in answer to his thoughts. “With their help I look at the whole picture and then I am bold enough to make important decisions, stick to them and accept all results achieved, be they positive or negative. Cullen can send his people in the battle with at least a part of his guilt for the inevitable death toll assuaged by the thought that he wasn’t the one to give the order. Josephine can spin stories and Leliana can trick and threaten knowing that even if they are responsible for the particularities, the main outlines of plans were not theirs and, should something fail spectacularly, they are not to blame.

It’s a beautiful arrangement: it puts me at the head of all things, free to do what has to be done without the need to deal directly with those who would inevitably annoy me or to constantly prove to the masses that I’m worthy of the trust and the power.”

“You know, within the Qun leaders are chosen not among the most powerful or even the most capable. They are the ones who can make the hard choices,” Bull said reflexively.

“Ah. But how do they determine if those hard choices are the right ones?” Mahanon chimed, smirking once again.

“By the lives held and lost,” he replied gravely, and the elf’s mirth washed away just as quickly.

“I understand. But my point stands: I didn’t become the Inquisitor because of my skills, rather, it was all a happy coincidence. Or not so happy, if you take into account a possible end of the world,” Mahanon looked a bit sheepish, but not exactly enough to believe he would exchange his good fortune for the world’s peace.

“So that is my story,” the elf concluded. “In childhood I’ve dreamt about saving the world, although more in the metaphorical sense of the word; later I’ve grown vastly disappointed in my saving capabilities, but now that I’ve found myself in the right position nothing will make me abandon it,” he said with adamantine conviction. Bull hadn’t doubted it anyway.

“To think,” the elf added, “this whole conversation and my long-winded monologue had been sparkled by contemplating footwear,” he wriggled his bare toes to accentuate the point.

Bull looked at the brilliant man by his side – one who could enumerate his failings without self-deprecation and describe his virtues without boasting; who thought about giving orders as sparing others guilt, fear and doubts and very much enjoyed his power at the same time; who was very selfless even in his selfishness - and didn’t even try to untangle the mix of feelings he evoked.

“It was very enlightening,” Bull said. “And if you ever need your feet kissed, I will be glad to do it.”

Funny thing was, it was no longer _entirely_ a sexual joke, even if Bull wanted it to be taken as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was long! Hope you liked this look into Mahanon's head and it explained his character in a believable way. As always, I will greatly appreciate hearing your opinions.  
> Next up: the mages, the cave and the trap.


End file.
